


Some Measure Of Control (Notes From A Doomed Timeline)

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Dark!Rose, Doomed Relationship, Gen, Other, Villainy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Rose form an uneasy alliance. Light-hearted buddy-cop shenanigans unsurprisingly fail to ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prototype

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack struggles with his latest prototyping, and cold-blooded murder is done.

Jack doesn't want to admit it, but the changes are getting to him.

It isn't all bad. The businesslike dispatching of the orange brat and his obnoxious brother would have brought him a professional satisfaction anyway, but now the sight of crumpled and broken feathery things tumbling from the sky raises in him a predatory joy that is entirely feline.

The dead crow brings him nothing but a dull, permanent ache in his chest. At least, he presumes that's the dead crow. Either way, it's more than worth it for the gift of flight, he thinks, as he soars through the atmosphere of the Land of Light and Rain on inkblack wings.

But this most recent prototyping, this is something else. It had hurt. In the past it had been painless, even pleasant - like stretching after a long time in a cramped space - but taking on the powers of the dog Becquerel had hurt like something was slicing him to fucking molecules. He hadn't known pain like that since the Queen.

And then after an eternal instant the pain had ebbed away, and he was unstoppable. He could see everything. Do anything. Swoop through the darkness of space in an instant, wheeling and spinning like a sleek dark comet. Those ungainly tentacles are gone. Green fire crackles at the edges of his consciousness.

He reaches the edge of the sea and the water boils under his feet. I am a god, he thinks, grinning to himself. A one-armed dog-faced god, but a god nonetheless. In the distance he sees a flash of purple, streaking across the sky like a low-drifting cloud.

The cat, he thinks. Oh, I know you. I've been you.

Being Jaspers had made him wonder what it was like to be the Courtyard Droll. All that simple curiosity and happiness. Jack had been pleased to find that you didn't have to dig far within the nature of a cat to find the grave of a furious and hungry tiger. That energy had served him well. Every carnivore has its day, he thinks, and Becquerel had been at least half wolf.

Maybe that would be a good quip for the Seer's epitaph, he thinks. Little Rose Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. No. Weak. He'd have to think it over.

He chases Jaspersprite over the clouds, grinning all the way. A little alarmed to find himself suppressing the urge to bark. The cat makes little attempt to flee. It seems forlorn, already defeated.

"Killjoy," he grins, "Could've fried you from miles off, you know. Guess I felt like a chase."

Jaspersprite curls up behind a cloud, shivering in the bright rays of light. Jack hisses and reaches out towards him, the ring on his finger jumping like a compass needle. He feels the charge build. Static in a thundercloud. The smell of gunpowder and the sound of dry grass rustling. And then a spear of green light slices with precision through the cloud, enveloping the trembling sprite.

"Bang," says Jack, and the cloud explodes. Points of lilac light twinkle and extinguish. Perfect. He'll make short work of the Seer, and then head back to the battlefield for a relaxing evening mincing pawns with the Dignitary and reminiscing on old times.

And then there is the dull thump of an explosion and he finds himself falling, cold air rushing past and whipping through his wings. The iridescent sea flies up towards him. It takes him all of thirty seconds of humiliating flailing to right himself again, wings beating with no dignity at all.

"You killed my cat."

He wheels round, ready to immolate this meddler, and sees Rose, hanging in midair. She stares at him, her head lowered and her hands limp at her sides, bearing two wickedly-sharp needles. Jack senses a web of darkness around her, woven just beneath the surface of the sky. Around her hands and wands the darkness coalesces, like crude oil soaking through a silk sheet.

"He must have been on his ninth life, dollface," said Jack. No. Goddammit. He is going to have to stop trying to make this one-liner business happen.

"One might almost describe it as raining cats and dogs out here," she says, with a humourless smile. Is she mocking him? Who does she think she is?

"Very funny," he says.

"Get out of the way," she replies coolly. Her gaze has already slipped from him, any anger she might have felt about his virtuoso murder of her cat subsumed in the intense focus she seems to have on the greenstone edifice behind him.

"What? Why?"

"I'm about to destroy that temple. Unless of course you want to stand in my path."

Jack twitches to one side with an elegant flick of his wings, just in time to witness the temple decompress into a cloud of floating rock fragments. There is a look of mixed concentration and delight on Rose's face as she directs the energy of the thorns in her hands. Then she relaxes. The shards of rock fall into the sea with a crash like the collision of mountains, and against all probability the island immediately catches fire.

The ruins burn like a magnesium flare, gushing grey smoke to the sky. Jack has never seen anything more beautiful in his whole life.

Rose has already sped on ahead, swooping down towards the burning island with the black flag of her dress fluttering behind her. That dark figure looks like a little Dersite child from up here. Jack feels an unwelcome stir of protectiveness in his chest. This is the goddamned dog prototyping, isn't it? It's infecting him. That fucking dog. So attached to its moronic little mistress. It's unbearable. Tugging at that ache in his ribcage as though something was trying to pull the sword out.

He decides to follow the Seer for a while and maintain observation.


	2. Tarantula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rose has an unexpected visitor and a deal with the devil is struck.

Rose returns to her house that evening aching and dishevelled. It's all she can do to put the salamander to bed in the bath before slumping on the couch in exhaustion. The couch, like everything else in the house, is bleeding-edge minimalist, and still smells faintly of the furniture warehouse. Rose buries her face in the plasticky leather and waits for her breathing to slow. She could go up to her room and find a more comfortable resting place, but sleep doesn't sound like a pleasant prospect right now, and the couch is just uncomfortable enough to keep her alert.

A light switches on with a click and she is on her feet almost before she has time to consciously register the change. Jack Noir is sitting in the corner of her living room, like a tarantula in a nice clean fridge.

"Dollface," he says, "Don't go straight for the wands. Maybe I want to cut you a deal."

"Oh, certainly," she says, "The murder of a beloved pet is often the precursor to human trading agreements, absolutely."

"Don't get snippy with me, sugar," he says, "I could turn you to stardust right here and now."

"Oh, threats. Truly, a textbook business move. Your mastery of the persuasive arts is unmatched." Her hand strays to the wand that remains permanently buckled to her hip.

"Easy there," says Noir. It's strange, hearing that smooth voice come from the snaggle-toothed mouth. "Don't mean you no harm. For now."

"Well, bastion of trustworthiness that you are, I nonetheless choose to disbelieve you. What exactly do you want?"

Rose can't believe she's talking like this. Why are the words still coming out of her mouth? An insane kind of courage posesses her, and a swelling fury like an ocean wave. What is this thing doing in her house? Noir looks wrong, like a broken limb, like a severed thumb, a mutant dogfaced scarab sitting in her armchair. His wings beat gently, and the movement disgusts her.

"I want you to work for me," he says, "You show potential."

"Ah, yes," she says. She searches her mind for something sarcastic to say, but the flood of rage seems to have subsided. Now she's just exhausted. She wants her Mom to come and deal with this. She wants to sleep undisturbed.

"Why would you want me to work for you?" she says eventually, "You're omnipotent."

"What kinda sovereign would I be if I didn't nurture talent when I saw it before my very eyes?" he says, "I saw you today. Blowin' up temples left right and centre. It was fuckin' masterful - pardon my language, doll - and I think you know exactly what you were doin'."

"Searching for a means to destroy you, naturally," says Rose.

"See, that's what I like about you," says Noir, "Maybe you were. And you were still showin' off."

Rose glared. He couldn't possibly be right. Maybe she had wanted him to see her, maybe she had wreaked destruction on the turtle temples with a little more flamboyance than was strictly necessary, maybe she had wanted Noir to be impressed, even - but it was all because she wanted him gone, wasn't it? She wanted him to know she was a force to be reckoned with.

"Well, my delusionally narcissistic streak is well-known," she said, "There's nothing I like more than attracting the attention of a monstrous flying psychopath from space."

"I could help you," he said, "Look. Token of my goodwill."

He holds his hand to his mouth and removes the Queen's ring. It's difficult, taking it off with only one hand and an ungainly canine mouth he isn't yet used to. For a moment his thoughts stray back to Her - oh, she would have been annoyed by the dog-face - and he feels a jolt of regret.

Rose watches impassively as Noir shrinks back to his unprototyped form. He's man-shaped now, or something like it.

I could kill him now, she thinks. He's defenceless. I have my wands. The war would be over. Everything would be over. There would be rest, and Mom would come home, and I could talk to John and Dave and Jade without them treating me like some diseased thing.

He watches her with beady white eyes.

"You're not goin' to kill me," he says, "Know how I know?"

"Yes," she says, "My telepathy skills are second to none."

"Pipe down, dollface. I know you're not goin' to kill me, because you're curious. You want to know what you could learn from me. Don't you?"

"If you say anything about curiosity killing the cat I will disembowel you." She should probably be more upset about Jaspersprite, but there is nothing but a vague numbness in her heart. He was here. Now he isn't. That's all there is to it. The amateur psychologist who still keeps residence in her mind suggests that there's something very wrong with her, but this way is, if nothing else, easier.

"We could do such things together, Seer," he says.

"I'm sure the world would be our mollusc of choice," she replies. She sighs and sits down on the couch again. She is so, so tired.

"Sleepy?" says Noir. It sounds like he might be trying to be sympathetic. This suits him about as well as the stupid shades he's wearing.

"No," says Rose. "If you really want me to work for you, you can get me a coffee."

"Fine," says Jack, to her surprise. He heads into the kitchen, his carapaced hindclaws clicking on the tiles like Mom's heels.

Rose hugs her knees and imagines planets burning. Maybe Jack could help them. Who cares about the battlefield? Who cares about Derse and Prospit? It's all so stupid. Maybe with Jack on her side she could break the game thoroughly enough for all of them to get out.

In the kitchen, Jack struggles with the accoutrements of human cookery. He has a good understanding of coffee, but in his world it's something served to you by terrified sub-agents in tiny black mugs. He's not totally certain what it's even made of. Unwilling to accept defeat, he starts searching for instructions. Rose's kitchen is as bare and clean and grey as the Queen's chambers back on Derse, and the single cookery book to be seen is a sleek silver volume which proves to contain nothing but cocktail recipes. Before he gets any further, a sigh from the living room draws his attention. Rose has fallen asleep, her tiny form propped up on the sofa, as peaceful as a dead pawn.

Jack replaces the ring on his finger and sits opposite her, wings fluttering absently. He can wait.


	3. Blast Radius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack goes for a walk, Rose dreams fitfully, and the two of them talk through their problems.
> 
> If by "talk through their problems" you mean "blow up a lot of priceless turtle architecture".

There are no nights in the Land of Light and Rain: the pleasant butter-yellow sunlight is unrelenting, leaving shadows permanently fixed at the three-in-the-afternoon mark. Jack leaves Rose sleeping and takes a walk. The soft sound of water lapping at the jetty is pleasant enough, he supposes. Nothing moves in the crystal oceans. The world has already been razed. Maybe it was the Queen, he thinks. Maybe one day the thought of her will stop feeling like ice cracking in his chest. He'd hated her. Of course he'd hated her. But god, what hatred. A fascinating, intoxicating loathing. He misses the times when he'd spend all day trying to find new ways to antagonise her, and the particular soul-catching obnoxiousness of her smile.

God, the thought of what the others would say if they heard this. He'd rather puke blood.

Suddenly there is a muted scream from within the house, and Jack finds himself turning back in alarm. The Becquerel part of his mind is rifling through scenarios: Rose has been attacked by imps. Rose has fallen and hurt herself. Rose is sad and needs comforting. Jack bares his teeth and kicks the wall, growling in annoyance. He's going to have to do something about this puppyish devotion. It's shameful. Muttering curses, he heads inside anyway.

Rose is sitting on the couch and staring at her arms, clutching one in the other as if to hold her body together. Her face is mask-like and blank, her bright eyes wide.

"Noir," she says, as he enters the room. "I need you to tell me something."

"What's that, doll?" he says. Something's got her shaken up. Well, this will be useful.

"My arms," she says, "They're not hurt. I'm perfectly certain there's nothing that looks like... clawmarks, or sucker burns, or anything like that. That's right, isn't it?"

She holds out her forearms, palms up. The sleeves of her dress are pulled back, revealing white skin marked only by the occasional freckle and the blue-white threads of veins. Humans are so soft and weak, he thinks. Clearly, a nice shiny carapace is the only way to go. Rose would benefit from armour-plating.

"Sure," he says, putting his head on one side. Minds like mazes, every last one of them. Nonetheless, he is despicably relieved that she isn't physically injured.

"Good," she says. She adjusts her hairband with a careful hand and glances at herself in the mirror. Perfectly arranged. "Thank you. I should get back to work. I have some wall inscriptions to translate. You understand I'm not going to beg you to leave or anything, but consider the sentiment conveyed anyway."

"I've got a better idea," he says.

"My surprise is immeasurable." She is crouched on the floor before the coffee table, sheafs of paper laid out before her. Most of them are covered with unreadable script, copied down in crayon. Some feature drawings, surprisingly good drawings, of tentacled things which make Jack's ears stand on end. He notices as she leafs through the papers that her hands are very definitely not shaking.

"You're in no state for it, doll," he says. "I think we should go blow shit up."

She looks up at him with something like a smile.

* * *

The tower falls with a satisfying crash, followed by the eardrum-bursting thud of the explosion. It's all rather beautiful, she thinks, all green light and flying fragments of green stone. The little pink turtles scatter below, and she has to remind herself that they aren't real. None of this is real. It's all data points in a computer game.

"Your turn, dollface," says Jack, pointing to the next tower, "If you feel up to it, that is. Wouldn't want to overwork you."

She grins and points her wands at the tower, sending a bright purpleblack arc of glittering energy at the edifice. The power of it makes the wands shudder, and the air around her quakes as though she was tearing through the sky. The explosion looks like an enormous chrysanthemum of fire, and she wishes she could freeze time and see that moment of destruction forever. Smoke and cordite fill the air.

"Yes!" says Jack, but she barely sees him. She swoops in closer to the tower, blasting apart any blocks of stone which remain intact. The place is going to be sand when she's done with it.

Jack decides it's time to admit it. Whether it's the dog or the cat or something else working within him, he somehow finds the little human kid absurdly endearing. What a goddamned pansy he is. The Dignitary would never let this go if he found it out.

Then again, he thinks, as he sees Rose tumble through the air, apparently giggling to herself, she would make pretty short work of the Dignitary.

* * *

When they get home, Rose makes coffee and they sit in silence at the kitchen counter and drink.

"Is it remiss of me not to offer you something stronger?" she says after a while, "There's gin in the cupboard."

"Heh. Good girl, aren'tcha?"

The cupboard proves to be full of nothing but unopened bottles of gin, and not for the first time Jack wonders when Rose has last eaten.

"I suppose now is the time to ask why you're so intent upon killing me and my friends," she asks. "We have no interest in getting involved with your ridiculous war."

"Do I look like I'm intendin' to kill you, doll?"

"Excuse my paranoia. Listening to the whispers of dark gods all day will have that effect on a girl."

She hasn't mentioned the gods before, not outright.

"It's worth it for the power, ain't it?" Jack says. Rose turns to look at him, and her eyes are bright, though ringed with sleepless shadows.

"Absolutely."


	4. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rose talks to her friends again. This goes about as well as can be expected.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

GG: rose!  
GG: hey, rose!  
GG: are you there???  
TT: Yes.   
TT: Excuse me, Jade. Is something the matter?  
GG: have you heard from dave lately?  
GG: i think there might be something really wrong!  
TT: There is probably nothing to worry about, Jade.   
GG: rose i'm really worried and so is john!   
GG: he's your server player don't you need his help???!!!  
TT: No.  
GG: rose what if he's really badly hurt or something! we don't know what happened after bec got prototyped! maybe the imps have superpowers now or something!!  
GG: rose!  
TT: They don't have superpowers, Jade.   
TT: Delightful as this conversation is, I'm very busy.  
GG: rose you're being awfully snippy today :/  
TT: I'm sorry.  
GG: rose?  
GG: rose???  
GG: sorry i didn't mean to upset you D:  
GG: rose please answer i can't deal with worrying about you and dave and those things in the sky  
GG: and karkat always trolling me what does that guy want anyway???  
GG: please  
TT: Stop bugging her kid  
GG: what???  
TT: Get outa here  
GG: ugh you don't have to be so rude!!!!  
TT: Go on, scram  
GG: i guess john and i will just have to deal with this on our own!!!  
TT: You do that, pipsqueak  
GG: fine i will!!!! some friend you are rose!

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

At first Rose had been very keen to keep Jack away from her computer.

"It seems wrong," she had said, "You might mess with Dave."

Jack couldn't help but smirk a little at that. But it wasn't as though. he could have worked a computer anyway. The technology was too foreign. Rose had shown him how to use the coffee machine and made a vague attempt to explain what a television was for, but the little picture-boxes didn't hold much fascination for him.

Now, though, she slumps in her chair, holding her head in her hands, and seems almost grateful when Jack takes the laptop away.

* * *

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

GG: rose  
GG: i hope you're not really mad at me! i'm so sorry if i upset you before!  
GG: we spoke to dave  
GG: he's ok. but there's really bad news D:  
GG: i don't know if i should tell you like this  
GG: are you there?  
GG: okay i guess i'll try talking to you again later  
GG: we miss you  
GG: <3

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

Rose sighs and drops her headset. It hits the water below with a distant splash.

"Little mice botherin' you again?" says Jack.

"They're doing their best to appear effectual," she says, "Perhaps if Jade used fewer exclamation points I might be more inclined to take her seriously."

"You're a cold bitch, Seer," he says.

"I aim to please," she says, curtsying in mid-air. The wind ruffles her already rain-drenched hair. It's freezing up here. The cold eats into her bones, replacing the marrow with a dull ache, but she doesn't care.

Jack nods and darts on ahead, a fleet black silhouette against the brilliant sky. She is no longer so disgusted by him: after all, she has seen far worse. He's still unsettling: he doesn't exactly breathe, and there is something about his presence that makes her heart beat slightly faster. And not in that way - she has considered this, and determined that what her life does not need right now is another incredibly inappropriate romantic interest - more like a mouse in the sight of an owl. More like prey. But it's a purely physical reaction. She is no longer the least bit afraid. She isn't afraid of anything any more.

* * *

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

EB: ok rose, well i guess you are off being a huge witch now  
EB: that's fine, i hope you're having a good time with your cat and your broomstick  
TT: Jaspersprite died.  
EB: oh holy shit really? man rose i am so sorry.  
EB: that sucks. everything pretty much does these days.  
EB: idk if you've spoken to dave but you should probably know  
EB: jack noir killed his bro  
EB: a week ago. we don't know why.  
EB: i haven't heard from my dad either :(  
TT: ...  
EB: rose? is everything okay?  
TT: I just don't understand why Noir would do something like that.  
EB: :/  
EB: i know it's your thing, but don't be sarcastic about this  
EB: not cool, man.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

She can tell Jack is reading over her shoulder before she turns around. He wants her to spin round in outrage and shout about how dare he. And he'd flick her a grin like the blade of a knife and come out with some ridiculous quip. You knew I was a snake when you met me, baby.

So she doesn't turn around. She folds her arms on the desk.

"Hello, Jack," she says.

"Evenin', Seer. I made coffee."

He's been helping her stay awake. Brewing ever-more-potent espresso, reading to her sometimes. It's been hard finding the right book. She can't touch Lovecraft any more, and having Jack read her Anne Of Green Gables just seems blasphemous, much as she might like to go back to the stories of her childhood. Eventually they settle on Raymond Chandler. Jack's voice suits Philip Marlowe surprisingly well. She isn't sure why he's so keen to keep her out of the grip of the things in her dreams. Maybe he's frightened of them himself. It seems unlikely that he'd care very much that they upset her.

"Thanks," she says, taking a mug and sipping. You killed my friend's brother.

"Went back to the battlefield today," he says, "Catchin' up with my crew."

"How charming." She pulls one of the Thorns from her belt, hidden under the desk.

"Friend of mine copped it," he said, "Sad thing."

"You don't have friends," she said. "You told me yourself. You don't have any friends whom you would think twice about slaughtering. And of course I could never possibly doubt your Machiavellian gangster machismo."

The wand rests comfortably against her palm. If she attacked him, would he kill her? If she killed him, would she regret it?

Yes. And yes.

"Shut up and drink your coffee, you snooty broad," he says. It's almost affectionate.

She takes a large sip. Swallows the coffee, sets down the mug, folds her hands in her lap, with the base of her wand under her thumb for security.

"You killed Dave's brother," she says. "The weird puppet guy."

Jack shrugs. "It was a fair fight, believe it or not."

She doesn't answer.

"Don't tell me you really care," he says, "Deep down. You know you ought to, but you don't. Think you're like me that way. Maybe if it had been one of your little friends you'd give a damn, but you don't."

Rose gives him a long stare, then turns back to her computer.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --

TT: Dave. I am so very sorry to hear about your brother.  
TT: Please don't try to contact me.  
TT: I'm trying to find us all a way out of this.  
TT: See you on the other side.  
TG: what the fuck rose wait

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --


	5. Fluffy Teenage War Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rose encounters some friendly Horrorterrors and Jack encounters his less-than-friendly second-in-command.

Rose dreams. The dim violet halls of Derse are hushed as churches, and the air is as warm and sweet-smelling as a Mediterranean night. It is calming to be in a dark place at last, but she knows what comes next and can't help but shiver. She swims through the air, slowly, willing herself to stay in her room where she's safe, but she is already moving towards the window. An inexorable tide draws her there. She feels the cool stone of the sill on her knees and realises this is her last chance to pull back, but some part of her wants to look: like probing a rotten tooth with the tongue, the things in the sky call to her.

And now she is falling through space. Nothing but black night and the faint speckling of stars, until the stars pull back like a gauzy theatre curtain, and there they are. The creatures. Tentacle looped upon tentacle like ropes of briars in a hedgerow. Teeth like thorns, in mouths of a size to swallow the Earth. Beaks and baleful eyes and mottled flickering membranes.

They are singing to her.

She listens and feels her mouth and ears fill with blood and her limbs blossom with bruises. It doesn't hurt, and that's somehow the most terrifying thing of all. She wants to stop watching, and yet she never wants the song to end.

Her eyes dim, and strange reminisciences float into her mind, as though different parts of her brain were sparking before shutting down. Jaspers in the snow - her first conversation with Dave - holidaying with her mom in Italy - swimming in the waterfall pond in summer, the green water like crystal all around her. She floats up into the sky as though drifting out to sea, barely knowing who or where she is.

This is getting worse, she thinks, and the night swallows her utterly.

* * *

Jack is becoming rapidly more convinced that the dog prototype was really an awful idea. Near-omnipotence is fun, but it is not worth the tug of anxiety that comes with abandoning his mistress - his ally, he corrects himself quickly, and after some thought amends that to minion.

His crew have noticed the change in him. Or perhaps that's an exaggeration. The Dignitary has noticed, because nothing slips past that man. The Droll... who knows what the Droll sees? Sometimes Jack wonders whether the little guy would one day rule over them all.

"Boss! Hey, boss!" the little guy calls. He's hiding behind a splintered tree, remote control in hand.

"What do you want to waste my goddamned time with now, smallfry?" he snarls.

"Welcome back, boss!" says the Droll, "And, um..."

"Spit it out!"

"Get... get out of the way? I already pressed the button."

Jack jumps to the side just as a nearby hillock explodes, sending grist and muck everywhere. The concussion throws Jack to the ground, and splashes of mud spatter his face and the edge of one wing.

"You fuckin' moron," he hisses. What he wouldn't give for a capable explosives expert.

"Sorry boss!" squeaks the Droll. He's still wearing that absurd hat. Jack has knocked it off his head a thousand times by now, reminding him that they're no longer slaves to the bitch's horrific fashion sense, but the Droll seems strangely attached to it. Jack doesn't have the heart to mock him for it.

"Where have you been, boss?" says the Droll, once Jack has picked himself up and dusted off the mud.

"Here and there," he says, "Ravagin' worlds. Subjugatin' armies."

"Really boss? That sounds excitin'!"

"In a manner of speakin'," he says. Fuck. No. That's something the snooty broad would say.

"Dee-Dee wants to talk to you, boss!" chirps the Droll. Jack smiles, if only because he knows how much that nickname grinds the Dignitary's gears.

As if on cue, the Dignitary saunters out from a nearby thicket, as tall, sleek and mean-looking as ever.

"Good evening, boss," he says. It's a ridiculous affectation, of course: there is no morning nor evening on the battlefield, but the Dignitary likes to treat everyone as though they're meeting in some murky bar at midnight.

"Long time no see, Dee-Dee," he grins.

"Quite," says the Dignitary. "You've been... otherwise occupied."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jack growls.

"Insinuating yourself into the affections of a human child?" says the Dignitary, "I didn't think the Seer was your type, boss." He spits out the last word as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"You've got a fuckin' nerve," Jack snarls, "You been spyin' on me, Dee-Dee? I should slit your lyin' cheatin' throat where you stand."

"You're out of your mind, Jack," says the Dignitary, "I wasn't aware that your little regicide still had such a hold on you."

"It's not about that!" Jack barks, and petals of green fire tumble from his fingertips. The Dignitary takes a step back, but there is an umistakeable smirk on his stupid ugly face.

"What is it about, then?" he says, "Do enlighten me."

"She's a weapon," he says, "I might be a fuckin' overlord of destruction, but I can't be in two places at once. With Rose - with the Seer at our side, the rest of them Prospitian runts are gonna crumble like yesterday's cake."

"And when exactly are we going to be graced with the presence of this adorably fluffy teenage war machine?" says the Dignitary, "I merely ask out of respect for your mighty strategic intelligence. Boss."

"Tomorrow," says Jack, "You'll see. HB would have been proud."


	6. Use Of Weapons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dave shows up and Rose shows off.

Rose spins higher into the sky, her eyes bloodshot and her mind filling up with odd catches of rhyme and speech in the absense of thought. The fragments of years. There is a pleasant numbness to it all, as though she was sinking in Arctic water. No more worry. No more sunlight.

And then, a voice.

"Rose," someone is saying, "Get back down here, what are you even doing?"

When she opens her eyes again, she's propped up in a chair in Dave's tower. She remembers dancing in here. It can't have been more than a couple of weeks ago. Now the place is silent, but still permeated by a warm amethyst glow.

Dave is sitting on the opposite side of the room, with his back to her.

"Hi," she says, after a while. Her voice is weak.

"Hi Rose," he says, without turning to face her, "Sorry to interrupt your little sky party there. Looked like you were having the time of your life."

"I'm sure I'll cope with my loss somehow," she says, without thinking.

Dave doesn't say anything. Fuck. Nice move, Lalonde. Really sensitive choice of expression there.

"Did you get my messages?" she says, eventually.

"Yeah," he says, "I guess you've been off doing secretive game-breaking shit. That's cool. Things have been pretty calm round here. Mostly just been drinking apple juice and drawing comics. Shit's so calm you could lull babies to sleep with it."

"I'm sure," she says, "From a psychoanalytical point of view it's good to know that you haven't been, for instance, pouring your energies into alchemising and levelling up with an eye towards revenge, or anything."

"Jacky boy hasn't shown his face yet," says Dave, "I'll be waiting."

"I should go," she says. There is a knot forming somewhere about the region of her heart, and staying here any longer is just going to tangle it further. She gets up from her chair, heading for the window. "Be careful."

* * *

When Jack returns from the battlefield, Rose is asleep on the living room floor, a collapsing heap of black cotton and blonde hair that brings memories of the dying birdsprite back to him, unbidden.

"Doll?" he says, nudging her with a toe, "Look alive. We've got business to do."

He's pretty sure she'd be powerful enough to make the flight out to Skaia herself, even if he couldn't teleport them both. But she won't stir. He pokes her more sharply, and she doesn't respond at all.

"Fuck's sake, Seer," he says, kneeling and shaking her, "This narcolepsy shit is gettin' old."

No response. She's definitely breathing - one blonde hair flutters across her lips - but she lies inert, like a broken umbrella.

"Rose!" he growls, "Fuckin' terrible humans. Make me want to throw up, the lot of you." He gathers her up in his arms and she remains limp as a puppet, and almost as light. As he carries her upstairs, he catches sight of himself reflected in a window. Daddy Noir. Fuckin' idiotic. He ought to just break this weird little creature's neck and get on with taking out her pathetic friends. That's what he's condemned himself to, isn't it?

Rose sighs in his arms and he sets her carefully on her bed, drawing the covers over her as neatly as he can. She doesn't show any sign of stirring. That's the plan thoroughly fucked, then. But maybe there's another way.

Jack arrives in the atmosphere of Derse's moon moments later. He supposes that he could teleport straight there if he chose to, but he enjoys the slow glide in over the city far too much. The shadow of his wings falls over the rooftops, silent as the silhouette of a shark seen from the surface. Tiny black figures below look up in awe. Nothing like a grand entrance.

And there is Rose, climbing out of the window of one of the towers, dressed all in purple. He flutters over to her with a few bats of his wings and does his best to seem grim and irritable. It's a good look on him.

"The hell are you playin' at, Seer?" he says. I've been worried sick. "Can't get nowhere in my business if you're unreliable like that."

"I'm sorry, Jack," she says. She glances back through the window of the tower, twisting the fabric of her skirts in both hands. "I had a nightmare. Don't let me look at the sky." Her voice is devoid of all emotion, but then that's fairly normal for her.

"Yeah, forget about that, dollface. Got a pretty big day today. Plannin' to introduce you to some friends of mine."

She ushers him away from the tower at speed. He would wonder why, but his mind is on greater things. In his head he hears the percussion of war: explosions, green and gold, and the final rending of Skaia, at last.

* * *

Rose feels a welling apprehension at the thought of meeting Jack's crew. She's too young and too small to be doing business with grown-ups. Not to mention grown-up criminals. Not to mention grown-up criminal murderers.

She clenches her fists around the handles of her Thorns. Enough of that sort of thinking. She's Rose Lalonde. She blew up her second gate. She faces down the dark gods on a nightly basis. She can deal with some petty mobsters, whatever they may think of her.

Nonetheless, as they touch down on the battlefield, her heart is thumping. What has Jack told them about her? She knows they're interested in her powers. That's fine. She's looking forward to finding some new terrain to practice on. They cross a river by a narrow chequered bridge and she notices that the water runs with blood, and dark red clots stain the pale earth along the banks. This place is a slaughterhouse. And so she imagines destroying it. Lifting up the corrupt earth and rock and raking them with cleansing fire. It will be good, she thinks.

"Dee-dee," says Jack, shaking her out of her reverie, "Here's the kid."

Standing before them is a tall, thin figure in what Rose has to admit is a very sharp suit. She's had to study Jack carefully to work out how expressions manifest on a Dersite face, but this man is as blank as a rock-face. She returns his gaze, unblinking.

"Enchanted," says the man, "You may refer to me as the Dignitary."

"Lalonde," she says, the corner of her mouth twisting slightly in amusement. His voice is so smooth and unctuous you could use it to grease gears.

The Dignitary raises an eyebrow at Jack. "Cute."

"Got a demonstration for you, Dee," says Jack.

"Oh, is that so?" says the Dignitary, before adding, with infinitesimal disdain, "Boss."

Jack smiles a reptilian smile of triumph, and Rose finds herself smiling too.

"Rose," says Jack, "Kill him."

She turns to look at him, sirens of excitement and panic rising in her head. There is a look of such pride and glee on Jack's face that she unholsters her wands without further hesitation.

The Dignitary, for the first time, falters. Red vines sprout from the earth and loop round his feet, locking him in place. He twists, then flails.

"Boss?" he says, "Jack! I'm your second-in-command!" The vines hold him neatly, even comfortably. He wriggles like bait on a hook.

"No you ain't," says Jack, with quiet pleasure, "Take it away, dollface."

Rose closes her eyes and feels the spike of charge building in the wands. She musters a fighting stance, letting power flow down her arms and crackle in her fingertips. And then she feels the lance of energy release and connect, rushing through her like a gale-force wind, tearing up trees and smashing cars.

When she opens her eyes the Draconian Dignitary is lying on the ground and missing most of his torso. Purplish-red blood gushes and pools on the ground, running in dark rivulets between his twitching fingers.

"Atta girl," says Jack. Rose says nothing.


	7. Collateral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go from bad to worse.

The Sovereign Slayer and the Regal Lieutenant make a pair of very pretty angels. Rose has taken to wearing a wing-shaped energy shadow whenever she flies, soaring round the mountains and forests of the battlefield with Jack in perfect mirror-image. Of course she doesn't need them to fly, but she's come to realise Jack enjoys the effect it has on the troops. Namely: abject, quivering terror.

Jack has a few underlings deal with the corpse of the Dignitary. It ends up in a pile with half a dozen ex-pawns. Rose tries not to look. It reminds her of things she's seen on the news - the bodies of children hidden from the cameras under dusty tarpaulins. Jack's other friend watches her, an accusing look in his beady eyes, always scuttling off behind a rock if she tries to make eye contact.

Later, when Jack is off inspecting the troops, Rose stumbles across the little guy dozing under a tree.

"Hey," she says, tapping him on the shoulder.

He opens his eyes, and she is part-horrified, part-gratified to see them widen in terror as he recognises her.

"Hi," he says, shivering. He's smaller than she is, and clutches a ridiculous technicolor hat to his chest like a security blanket.

"I'm Rose," she says, sitting next to him, "What's your name?"

"I know," he says. "I'm a Courtyard Droll. My friends call me Deuce."

He pronounces it "juice", and Rose can't help but smile. Deuce winces.

"I thought they were my friends, anyway," he says.

"Oh, dear," she says, "Um. I'll be your friend, if you like?"

God knows it's a bad idea to make friends. She isn't sure how one goes about it.

"No, you can't," says Deuce. He hugs his knees and hides his face behind his hat. "I'm still Jack's friend because he's still the leader, but you ain't my friend. I hate you."

Well. That's that, then.

"I'm sorry about the Dignitary," she begins, holding out her hands peacefully, "I didn't want to - Jack told me - he would have done it himself." Each excuse sounds lamer than the last, and she finds herself unwillingly remembering the spidery twitch of the Dignitary's fingers as he died.

"You don't know nothin' about Jack," says Deuce, "You're just a mean, evil girl."

Rose folds her arms and fixes the little man with her best withering stare. For a moment she considers just detonating the tree and everyone nearby - that would teach them to insult her - but quickly shakes off the thought. That way madness lies. I might be a soldier now, but I'm not a monster. Her hesitation seems to give the Droll some courage, because he draws himself up to his full height - all four feet of it - and glares at her.

"And you're not even the mean, evil girl he liked."

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] --

TG: egbert listen up  
TG: in my dream  
EB: you are the star?  
TG: not right now man  
TG: i just saw rose goin hand-in-hand with jack noir  
TG: they were like best buds all up in a flowery meadow picknickin right left and centre  
TG: all the way up to skaia  
TG: im guessing this is all part of some kind of complicated plan  
TG: its not like shes gone batshit berserk or anything  
TG: am i right  
EB: that doesn't sound good.  
EB: i didn't hear about any kind of plan.  
TG: fuck  
EB: yeah D:  
TG: id pretty much be ok with it  
TG: if that guy would just die horribly right now  
EB: what are we going to do? do you think he kidnapped her?  
TG: sure i guess  
TG: thats possible  
EB: ok. my dreamself's up on the battlefield.  
EB: i'll have a look around up there.  
EB: report back in an hour. ok?  
TG: k  
EB: hang in there dave!

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --

* * *

Jack returns from his mission with a paper package for Rose. Inside is a bread roll and a few dried fruits that she thinks might be figs. All of it looks wizened and unappetising, but she chews and swallows a few mouthfuls nonetheless.

"Can't have you starvin' yourself," he says, "Need you efficient."

Becquerel and Jaspers are both whining pitifully in his mind. Poor mistress so sad so frail. He shakes his head violently, but the sense of howling anxiety and protectiveness doesn't fade. He wonders whether he should de-prototype for a while and clear his head, but he has the awful creeping feeling that it wouldn't help in the slightest.

"Sorry, Jack," she says. Her eyes are downcast and stained purple from exhaustion. It can't be good to live as a dream-self all the time, he supposes, even if you're the Princess of Derse. Her waking body must still be asleep in the Land of Light and Rain.

"Some kind of disturbance in the Western Quarter," he says, "Intruders or whatnot."

"I suppose you want me to accompany you," she says, nibbling the corner of a bread roll.

"Want you to go yourself," says Jack, "Consider your trainin' complete."

She nods. Should she be proud that he trusts her that much? Just now she can't seem to get certain other matters off her mind. "I spoke to Deuce. He was talking about you..."

"Oh, yeah?" says Jack with a grin, "Always been fond of smallfry. Fuckin' useless, but he means well."

"He mentioned a girl," she says, staring carefully at the ground. Jack doesn't like direct questions. Especially about personal matters. The time she had found a copy of Terrier Fancy magazine tucked under the dresser at home was bad enough.

"Proves how much he knows," says Jack, scowling, "What kind of nancy does he think I am?"

"I can see why you'd want to repress these things, Jack," she says.

"Repress nothin'," he says, baring his teeth, "Do I look like the kind of guy who goes in for all this complex emotional bullshit? Save it for your whiny friends and their cissy feelin's."

"I heard someone talking about the Queen," she says calmly. This is a lie. It hardly takes a genius to put two and two together.

Jack stands up abruptly, his wings bristling and disgruntled.

"Don't you ever mention that bitch's name again," he snarls. For a moment she thinks he might hit her. "Now go take out the intruders in the Western Quarter. Quick-sharp."

And then he takes off into the air and is out of sight faster than she can blink. Resignedly, she too takes to the air and heads towards the Western Quarter. The wind whips her hair into her eyes and stings her ears bitterly. Flying is no longer the escapist joy it once was. From the sky, the craters and rifts that scar the battlefield are clearly evident, and here and there the chequered earth is stained dark with soot, scree, blood.

The skies of the Western Quarter are clogged with ash and smoke. Rose coughs, shielding her stinging nose with her arm. There is a buzz of static from her radio, and she holds it to her ear. An underling is trying to give her the position of the insurgents, but it's masked by the fizz of white noise and the howling wind. What is this weather? Like she needs a hurricane on her hands as well.

"It would certainly be useful if I could hear a fucking thing you're saying," she hisses into the radio. Fuck this. Fuck it all. She wants to go home.

There is a glitter of disturbance on the ground at the centre of the storm, and she swoops lower to get a better look. A small figure in Prospitian livery. She sighs and rolls her eyes. How fucking moronic do you even have to be?

Sorry, kiddo, she thinks, sending a purplish fireball earthwards with what she thinks of as a rather stylish flick of her wands. It hits the ridge where the intruder stands with a satisfying cacophonic boom, and she feels a wave of heat and sound thunder past her. She basks in the warmth of the conflagration for a moment, before darting to the ground to see whether any cleanup is required.

The first sign that anything is wrong is the scrap of yellow silk sticking to the ground. It's the wrong colour and texture for an ordinary Prospitian soldier. Wrong altogether. Oh god. Oh fuck. Another shred of silk is plastered around a splintered fragment of wood, and another over the top of the ruined ridge.

She doesn't want to look any further. She doesn't want this to be true. The wind has abated, and a horrible stillness falls over everything, leaving her only with the faint sighing of the breeze and the death-rattle of branches overhead.

Face up to it, Lalonde, she thinks, Face up.

She pulls herself on hands and knees over the ridge, grey mud smearing her palms and skirts. Lying upside-down on the scorched earth is a dark-haired boy dressed all in gold. His glasses are smashed next to him, and blood runs down his bruised temple.

"John?" she says, and the name already sounds like a lament in her throat.

* * *

Rose lies curled up in the dirt beside John's body for what feels like aeons. Wind and dust stings her eyes but she cannot cry, beyond a few broken sobs. She longs for black wings to fold around them both, and hide them from the glaring sky. John barely looks hurt, but when she tries to lift him she feels the twist in his spine, like a broken doll. The force of the blast must have been immense. And she had done it so casually. So lightly.

What is she going to do? What can she possibly do or say to make this all right?

Against all logic she finds herself wishing Jack was here. When she hears footsteps in the dust behind her, her heart leaps with - not hope, but relief and comfort.

"Rose?" says a voice, and it isn't Jack. A soft female voice with a jagged edge of shock and alarm. "Oh, god, Rose? Darling?"

Her mother is kneeling over her, one slender white hand brushing her hair out of her eyes.

Go away, Rose thinks, I don't deserve this. After all that she has seen and done, it doesn't seem right.

"Rose?" says her mother again, panic rising in her voice.

Rose opens her eyes. "Mom," she says, "I-I'm okay. But John-"

"Hush," says her mother, lifting her in her arms as though she was a baby. "You're safe now."

"John's dead, Mom!" she says, clinging to her Mom's shoulders despite herself.

Her mother's eyes flicker over John's body. "Need to call Egbert," she mutters to herself, but before she can do anything a man emerges from the mist - ghostly-pale and holding a fedora limply at his side. Though her face is pressed against the lapel of her Mom's jacket, out of the corner of her eye Rose sees him fall to his knees at John's side.

"Have to get Rose out of here," Mom murmurs to the man, "I'll be back."

The man Rose knows must be John's father collapses like a house of cards. The last thing she sees is his body fallen in the dust, his head resting on the boy's chest.

As her mother turns her back and sets off down the ridge, Rose finds herself screaming.

"Don't you dare take me away from him I want to stay with John let me stay!" she yells. Her mother continues down the blasted hillside, stroking her hair soothingly, and soon she has no words left but tears.


	8. Second Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rose learns the meaning of the word "consequences".

Rose wakes up in the Land of Light and Rain and everything is as it was. Her pile of knitting is scattered across the floor in the same haphazard arrangement as before. A few imps have infiltrated the place, but they scatter when they see her sit up.

This is who she is now. Someone whom little creatures fear.

Her mother had carried her all the way back to her tower in Derse, shielding her eyes carefully from the things in the sky, and laid her down to sleep. She has half a mind to try and rest again, and just to let the dark gods take her. They deserve her.

Her head is aching and her eyes sting, but she forces herself to get out of bed and stand at the window. The light of Skaia beats down unrelenting.

Suddenly there is a familiar electronic chime from her computer. Someone is trying to talk to her. She wants to crawl back into bed and pull the blankets over her head, but whoever it is is being very persistent.

Was there the slightest possibility that Jack had worked out how to use Pesterchum? No, of course there wasn't. She was being a silly girl. She never wanted to see him again. But it was still worth checking. Perhaps. Perhaps.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

Oh. Wonderful.

TG: whats up lalonde  
TG: oh sorry youre probably too busy hunting down jade or something  
TG: with your boyfriend  
TT: That's unfair.  
TG: hahahahaha  
TG: right  
TG: shame my bro didnt have a dreamself or you couldve taken care of that  
TT: Enough.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has blocked turntechGodhead [TG] --

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --

GG: oh rose  
GG: i'm really sorry  
TT: I don't need your pity, Harley.  
GG: ...fine :/  
GG: excuuuse me for trying to be understanding!  
GG: i knew i should have listened to dave  
TT: Jade, I didn't mean to say that!  
GG: fuck  
GG: you

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] has blocked tentacleTherapist [TT] --

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] --

GA: Excuse Me  
TT: Kanaya. This is not the best time.  
GA: Yes I Am Aware  
GA: The John Human Informed Me  
TT: ...  
GA: He Is Aware Of The Manner Of Death Of His Dream Self  
GA: He Is  
GA: As One Might Expect  
TT: Enraged?  
GA: Forgiving  
TT: That's almost worse.  
GA: You Are Being Remarkably Blunt  
TT: Oh, do please excuse me, I'll just take some time out of the grieving process to crank up my sarcasm motors, shall I?  
GA: Neatly Done  
TT: ...  
TT: For fuck's sake, Kanaya. Please go away.  
TT: There is nothing you can do to help me.  
GA: I Would Advise You To Speak To John At Your Earliest Opportunity  
GA: All Is Not Lost My Dear  
GA: He Lives  
TT: ...  
TT: "My dear"?  
GA: A Colloquialism  
TT: Nonetheless. He saw me murder him and laugh about it. He's lost his dream self. His father had to mourn for him.   
TT: I collaborated with Jack Noir.  
TT: I'm not sure I'm comfortable being forgiven for that.  
GA: We All Do Things We Regret Rose  
GA: Your Friends Are Hurt But You Must Begin To Make Overtures of Reconciliation  
GA: If Not For Your Sake, For The Sake Of The Safety Of All  
TT: Tell me, Kanaya, have you ever considered a career in writing educational cartoons for small children?  
GA: It Is Merely Pragmatic  
GA: The John Human Needs A Server Player  
TT: I imagine he will have some difficulty trusting me after this.  
GA: He Is An Exceptionally Hopeful Creature   
GA: You May Be Surprised  
GA: I Believe He Used The Term  
GA: No Harm, No Foul  
GA: I Am Uncertain Of Its Meaning  
GA: But Nobody Is Blinded Nor Crippled  
GA: Nobody Is Even Really Dead  
GA: Your Friends Will Forgive You If You Let Them  
GA: Is This Really About John  
GA: Question Mark  
TT: No, clearly it's all about my relationship with my mother.  
TT: Well done, Dr Freud.  
GA: You Know That Isn't What I Meant  
TT: I have to go now.  
GA: I Hope You Will Sort This All Out In Your Head  
GA: Goodbye, Rose

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] --


	9. Multifoliate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a laying to rest.

When Jack ascended to sovereignty, he had ordered the royal palace be abandoned. The dark halls of the place have remained empty and silent ever since, like the hollows of an unbeating heart. Jack lands in a courtyard and his footsteps on the cobbles echo through the tunnels like the ripples of a skipped stone. Everywhere the masonry is shot through with dark fissures, images of destruction he doesn't even remember causing. The curious passage of time in this place has filled the rooms with the cobwebby air of ages, even though some of the walls are spattered with blood only a few weeks old.

The Queen's chambers lie at the core of the palace, a windowless arcade illuminated from far above by the pale light of Derse's moon. Jack remembers when these rooms felt like a prison. A place of constriction and entrapment, scented with the heavy florid perfume the Queen had always worn. A spider's web into which he willingly wandered, time after time after fuckin' time. Now they are all vacant and empty to the sky, whisked clean by the wind and the chirp of cicadas.

Her Majesty's Wardrobe had been the first to go. When the fire of his first prototyping had burnt strongest in his heart he had taken a torch to the place. Hundreds upon hundreds of garish silk dresses burning, like ghosts of Her. The last of the flowery perfume leaching into the air and dispersing like breath. The room is still full of ash. This is where she died. The memory no longer sends needles of guilt through him. Now it's more like a fucking lance to the chest, and for some reason it sets the hound and the cat to baying louder than ever.

He just wants some fucking peace. He lies on the ashy floor of the boudoir, his wings beating a silhouette in the dust, and closes his eyes to blot out the moon above, but they won't shut up. He can't think like this. On an impulse, he flicks the ring from his finger, letting it spin to a halt with a little clink and a shuffle of ashes. His body shrinks and his face returns to its usual shiny oval of malice. His teeth feel right in his mouth once more.

But the noise in his head is, if anything, worse. And somehow it isn't the Queen that they're squabbling about.

Girl couldn't take a little murder, says one voice, the voice he best recognises as his own, you're well shot of her. Fuckin' weaklings. Oughta be obliterated.

Pushed her too hard, said another, tinged with regret, Could've had a great thing there. Shame you had to ruin it all.

You fuckin' idiot, says another, you knew it would destroy her and you didn't care. You wanted her to know the same sufferin'.

All at once there are quick footsteps outside and a shadow in the doorway.

"Hello, Jack," says a voice. Half calm, half mocking. Horribly familiar. And while he's scrabbling in the dust like some pathetic nancy-boy wiggler. Shit.

Rose is leaning against the doorframe. She's pale as milk and her eyes are red and downcast, but for a moment there's an echo in her of the Queen's imperious posture.

"Dollface," he says, sitting up and trying to make it look as if he had just been lounging comfortably on the floor out of choice.

"What are you doing here?" she says. There isn't a hint of the normal snap and fire in her voice.

"Could ask you the same question," he says.

"Is it so hard to guess?" she says.

"Oh, Jack, I'm lookin' for your shoulder to cry on because I'm just such a fuckin' crybaby I can't even get through the most basic recon mission without blubberin' like an infant," he says, adopting a high and mocking voice, because if there's one thing he believes in it's deserving what he gets.

"Oh, Rose, I'm looking for your shoulder to cry on because of some kind of ridiculous emotional transference resulting from murdering the woman I loved."

There. She's said it now. Dressed up in psychobabble, perhaps, but now it is at least said. Rose clasps her hands to the Thorns hidden under her shawl. She hopes she isn't going to need them.

Jack sits still on the ground. He doesn't even turn to look at her.

"Hurts, don't it?" he says.

After a second's consideration, she sits on the floor beside him. The ring glitters amongst the ashes and she slips it into her pocket under the guise of arranging her skirts.

"You just want the power," he says, "You just want the power and some measure of control over your awful fuckin' miserable life. And you make one mistake, and that's it. Everything that was clear, everything that had meaning. Gone. Fuckin' gone."

"I can't say I don't have some sympathy with that," she says, resting her head on his shoulder. She's never shown him any kind of physical affection before. Maybe he'll just kill me for this and that'll be an end to it, she thinks. Instead, he looks surprised, but seemingly tolerant.

"Shouldn't've sent you," he says at length, "I knew it was your friend."

The words strike Rose like a knuckleduster to the head.

"You knew?" she said, "You knew that was John." Her breathing is suddenly ragged, as though something is tearing at her throat.

"Of course I did," he said, "The fuck kind of omniscient being do you think I am?"

"You sent me to kill my friend," she says. She feels like she's on a boat in a hurricane. Try as she might to bail out the rising water, to batten hatches and cling to the rail, the wind and the waves are dragging her, tugging on her skirts and hair with irresistible force.

"War is hell, dollface," he says, and something snaps. She pulls a single wand from beneath her shawl, and without a second's thought sends a wave of bright violet fire straight at him. The buzz and crack of energy is met with a roar of pain and grief and rage, and as Rose scrambles to the other side of the room, she is left with an awful image of carapace splitting and melting like burning rubber. The smell of charred bone fills the room.

The worst part is that he's alive. Thrown back at an angle, like a dying ant. It's clear that important bits of him are broken beyond repair.

"R-Rose," he chokes. She is still backed up against the wall but can't help rushing to his side at the sound of her name. "It's over."

She doesn't reach out to take his hand or wipe the blood from his eyes. Fuckin' condescension, makes me wanna puke, he'd say, she thinks.

"I know, Jack," she says. She holds up the ring, so he can see she's got it safely, that there really is going to be an end. "No more."


End file.
